Fic: Ritual (13): Gratitude, part three
Title: Ritual (13): Gratitude (3/3)
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, power/pain play, alcohol use, angst, language
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: During the Thanksgiving holiday, Peter and Nathan struggle to communicate with each other. Their tangled web of fear, desire, and love threatens to tear them apart, but instead holds the key to keeping them together. Written for the heroes_bigboom Challenge!
Part Three
"My place," Peter said.
They were the only words spoken on the drive downtown. Peter switched the radio on, quietly, and found his favorite pirate station on the dial. They were playing lightly remixed Miles Davis. Nathan left it on, half listening to the music, and half listening to the sound of Peter's deep, accelerated breathing, occasionally punctuated with a sigh or a barely audible moan, squirming a little in his seat, like he was immersed in a highly sensual dream. Peter wasn't touching himself, though; Nathan would have been able to see that out the corner of his eye.
Nathan wanted to say something, but Peter was just being so quiet, so delicious, forcing Nathan to confront his own thoughts without the outlet of speech. Talking relieved tension, and that was the last thing that Peter seemed to want. Nathan found his own breathing suddenly heavier as he tried in vain to calm himself, but he perceived every tiny circle that Peter made with his hips that rubbed his ass against the car seat, every subtle strain that Peter made against his seat belt, as if silently protesting its bondage. The music was the opposite of soothing, but not grating, either; instead it pressed urgently forward, eagerly seeking a future release that seemed right around the next measure, but kept moving away.
Nathan wondered if Peter was getting as hard as he was.
Peter's mind was elsewhere, floating in the half-blissful, half-crazy white noise of his thoughts, the mental state that always took over when he knew for certain that he and Nathan would soon be playing, having sex, fucking, screwing around, whatever terminology you wanted to use. Together. He couldn't examine his thoughts directly - it would be like looking at the sun - so he just let them wash over him, making no attempt to hang onto or make sense of any of them. If he thought too much about Nathan's body, or the loss of control that Nathan had to be experiencing, or what Nathan might do to him (or God forbid, what that might feel like), Peter would just come in his pants and make a mess. It had happened before, coming just by thinking about Nathan biting sucking spreading twitching after days of unsatisfied desire. Peter didn't want that. He wanted every time he came because of Nathan to be significant and shared, and if he couldn't have that, he wanted it to be secret, swift, and private.
So he just sat there, and listened to the radio, and loved the pirate radio station, the DJ mixing together Bitches Brew and some other odd, clicky mid-tempo drum break, and some spoken word, maybe Timothy Leary?... no, it was Allen Ginsberg, reading from Howl... and that was both good and bad, because it was poetry about assfucking and transcendence, and Peter didn't really need any more thoughts about either one of those things. Fortunately that poetry track gently faded away and disappeared just in time for the rising swell of the trumpet to emerge, and Peter couldn't help moaning, and then gave a soft, faint laugh of relief and delight. Across the front seat of the car, Nathan sighed in answer, but sounded more annoyed than anything else.
Peter just kept smiling. Soon.
Finally, they arrived at Peter's apartment building, and Nathan parked in the underground garage. Peter jumped out of the car and hurried toward the elevators before Nathan had even turned off the ignition. He'd have liked to get into the elevator first, too, and watch the door close on his brother, but the elevator took a long time to come and Nathan caught up. His expression was cold and aggravated, but his erection made a slight bump against the drape of the front of his coat. Peter stared at the protrusion, trying not to smile; he had a hard-on, too, so there was no call for him to feel superior. Besides, superior - what the fuck was that? Nobody was superior here. They were both in the wrong, and Peter didn't know exactly what kind of "comfort" Nathan sought. He had the feeling that it would come at a high price.
That was the other part of keeping his thoughts vague - it was a way of fighting off fear. Nathan had never hit Peter, but that didn't mean that he never would, or that Peter didn't deserve it. When Peter was younger, before they had ever gone all the way, he would fantasize about Nathan hitting him almost the same half-terrified, half-longing way he thought about Nathan fucking him. It was all scary, and the idea of being punched in the face was almost less frightening than being fucked. It still scared him. If Peter didn't want to feel Nathan inside him so badly, he'd never dare.
But he did want it; he did need it. He needed to trust Nathan that much more, and he believed that Nathan was worthy of that trust. The worst he'd done was made Peter sore for a day, and really, that was okay.
They didn't speak in the elevator, keeping to their separate corners, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the metal box.
Nathan arched his eyebrow at the messiness of Peter's apartment, but said nothing. Peter turned to face Nathan, looking into his eyes briefly; Nathan had no expression. Peter turned away, hung up his coat and suit jacket, making himself busy. He went into his bathroom, and came back with his arms full of towels. Nathan hung up his coat too, and watched curiously as Peter walked past him into the kitchen, pretending to ignore him.
Nathan followed him, and leaned against the wall, several feet away. Peter took off his button-down shirt and dropped it carelessly on the kitchen table, then began running hot water into the sink, keeping his back to Nathan, steam curling up around him.
Nathan enjoyed the opportunity to openly stare at Peter, in private and alone. Here, he could examine the pale column of Peter's neck, his shoulders, his perfect back, Peter's shoulder blades moving fluidly under the white cotton of his T-shirt. Arms lean, but well-muscled, well-defined. An enviably narrow waist; the swell of the prominently curved rump. The Petrelli ass. Nathan chuckled to himself; he had it too, but his stuck out even more. He'd never noticed his own until he started noticing Peter's. And it had taken even longer for him to admit to himself that he had ever noticed Peter's.
A guy's not supposed to look at his brother's ass like that.
Nathan stumbled at this roadblock of shame, and retreated back into himself, not seeing Peter anymore even though he still had his eyes trained in that direction. He didn't notice Peter shutting off the water and dipping some of the smaller towels into it, wringing them out, then tossing the damp towels into a large mixing bowl. He didn't even notice Peter turning around and staring at him until Peter spoke.
"Nathan," he said.
"What?" Nathan responded, startled back to the room.
Peter looked him up and down critically. "Take off your clothes," he said, then turned back to the sink.
For a moment, Nathan just stood there.
"What are you waiting for?" Peter said. "Do it. Or go home. You fucking pussy."
Nathan narrowed his eyes, then slowly loosened his tie. Peter shook his head, methodically wringing out wet towels, but didn't turn around until he heard the sound of a zipper. Peter tried to just look over his shoulder, but soon he turned all the way around to face Nathan, regarding him with mild interest. He watched Nathan step out of his shoes, slide his trousers down and off, untuck and remove his shirt, and pull off the silk undershirt, folding everything carefully over the back of a kitchen chair. It was too brisk, but tentative, to be a strip tease, but Nathan didn't rush himself; he just didn't put on a show, either.
Nathan tried to meet Peter's eyes, but Peter was focused on Nathan's body - the torso, the arms and shoulders, the legs. Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that he was being judged. Well, he had nothing to be ashamed of; Nathan knew he was in impeccable shape. He looked the way he wanted to look, and had been told time and time again that he was beautiful.
But Peter glanced at Nathan's underwear, and slowly shook his head. "Scared," he said, his voice too flat for it to be a question.
Nathan smirked at Peter, and pulled his shorts down and off, exposing his cock, which was swollen and heavy but not quite hard. He enjoyed Peter's expression of momentary weakness - the lowering of the lashes, the faint blush that spread across his cheeks, the sigh - and waited to hear Peter moan and beg to touch.
Instead Peter said, "Get on your knees and suck my dick."
It wasn't the dirtiest thing that Nathan had ever heard him say - by far - but the abruptness of it, the apparent lack of any feeling about it, startled Nathan a bit. Nathan was being told what to do with all the dull, perfunctory authority of a bored john talking to a five-dollar whore whom he considered to be overpriced. It wasn't like Peter at all.
But the strangeness of it got Nathan hot.
He approached Peter, and slowly got onto his knees on the none-too-clean kitchen rug in front of Peter, who made no move to unfasten his clothes. "Go on," Peter said, trying to maintain his distant tone, but it just couldn't hold; his voice began to quiver before he'd even half finished. "Open my zipper, pull it out, put it in your mouth. Suck it."
Nathan closed his eyes briefly, shame washing over him again; how many times had he been just that imperious, that commanding to Peter? How many times had he been cruel when he knew that Peter wanted him so badly he could hardly think, how many times had he made Peter beg for it? How much did Peter love it, that he'd beg? Either the whole point of it, for Peter, was the begging, or else Peter begged even though he didn't want to... Why am I so mean to him? I love him.
But Nathan wasn't being begged right now. He was being told. He shook his head lightly, then undid Peter's belt, loosening the waistband and unzipping the fly, but not taking Peter's trousers down. Nathan hadn't been told to do that. He'd been given very specific instructions.
I tell you what I need, Nathan remembered.
Nathan pulled Peter's cock through the flap in the front of his dark-blue boxer-briefs, and brought it to his mouth. He couldn't resist a faint, shaky moan of joy as soon as he felt the smooth skin and the blood-urged stiffness against his tongue. Nathan sucked deeply and avidly, taking Peter all the way back to the entrance of his throat, carefully holding his breath, and swallowing, knowing that it created a vacuum of almost unbearable pressure. To his credit, not only did Peter not lose it on the spot, but he even kept his vocal response to a bare, faintly hummed minimum. "Yeah," he whispered, biting his lip, sighing. "That's right. That's what you want."
It was far from being all that Nathan wanted, but his mouth was too full to talk back. He concentrated instead on giving head like a five-thousand-dollar whore, slurping, licking, pressing the cockhead between his tongue and palate, occasionally looking up and meeting Peter's eyes. No matter how much Peter tried to keep his cool, he was no match for that kind of technique. Within a few moments, Peter was open-mouth sighing and circling his hips in time with the slow rise and fall of Nathan's mouth. His fingers rested lightly on the back of Nathan's neck, running up through Nathan's hair, clenching it, but gently and briefly before letting go again. Peter wasn't forcing anything, and through his haze of lust, Nathan felt annoyed and impatient. He wanted Peter to be rough with him. He reached in again, and drew out Peter's balls, running his tongue between them and up the under-ridge of Peter's cock, then enclosed the shaft in his mouth again. "Oh, yeah," Peter moaned out loud, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as he stepped closer to Nathan, onto the rug.
Nathan's mouth filled with a sudden salty, slippery moisture, and he drew his head back, swirling the clear, glistening fluid around the head of Peter's cock with his tongue. Then he drew away completely, and stood up, giving Peter a pointed, contemptuous look. Peter stared back, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open, his delicious, crookedly drooping lower lip the same bright, wet pink as the head of his cock. Nathan dove in and kissed that lip, opened Peter's mouth with his, and slid his tongue inside. Nathan grabbed Peter around the waist and yanked him in close, crushing him, then pushing him back, hands running possessively down Peter's back to grab and knead his ass, and clutching Peter against him again, demonstrating the roughness he wanted.
Nathan pulled Peter's T-shirt up over his head; Peter obligingly wriggled up out of it, only willing to relinquish the kiss for the bare second it took the shirt to pass across his face. Nathan stroked up the sensitive ridges of Peter's ribs, then down to the firm curves of his stomach muscles, pushed Peter's pants down his hips until they fell around his ankles. Nathan pushed the elastic waistband of Peter's boxers down until it caught against the barrier of Peter's stiff, straining cock. Nathan yanked the shorts down over it, making the elastic snap against Peter's balls; he moaned hard into Nathan's mouth.
By then, the flavor of Peter's pre-come had vanished from their kiss. Nathan let go completely, stepping back until he felt the cold bare linoleum against the soles of his feet. Peter looked even more lustfully absurd, standing there against his kitchen sink with his pants around his ankles and his hair disheveled. Nathan smiled a little, then turned and walked away, heading across to the living room, to Peter's bed. "Scared?" Nathan murmured.
Peter followed a minute later, naked now, carrying a big glass of water, the bowl of wet towels, and the armload of dry towels. He set the wet towels on his nightstand, shoving textbooks aside with his wrist, and tossed two of the dry towels onto the bed. From the drawer in the nightstand, he produced the large bottle of Nathan's favorite lube that Nathan had left here, last time, and set it on the tabletop with a definitive tap.
Nathan sat on the edge of the bed, one fist curled around his cock, stroking himself quickly and lightly, not rushing himself. They had time, this time. This was no quickie in someone's bathroom; they had carte blanche to do as they liked, to do what they needed to do, for as long as was necessary. He wondered how much time they could get away with. All night? Tomorrow, too? Or was that cheating?
Yes, Nathan, it's cheating. It's cheating on your wife, he thought. With your baby brother.
He grabbed his cock hard, and dug his fingers in, trying to hurt himself, to punish himself, but it just felt good. He'd passed the point of no return back there in the kitchen - Peter had dragged him right across the line. Again. Where the only truth that mattered was sensation and emotion, where nothing made sense but everything, where nothing was right, but everything... everything was right.
Nathan got so distracted that he didn't see Peter jumping for him until it was too late, and he completely folded under Peter's tackle. Before Nathan could get his bearings, Peter had Nathan's arms pinned behind him in such a way that he couldn't move too much without an immensely painful result. Before Nathan could surrender or negotiate, Peter sharply slapped Nathan's cock, making it instantly, excruciatingly hard. "Ow! You little shit!" Nathan snapped. "That is not necessary!" It only made Peter snicker and slap him again, then laugh out loud at Nathan's helpless, animalistic moan.
"Oh, poor you," Peter whispered, then released Nathan, slid over him, and, moaning, went down on Nathan's cock. The sounds of appreciation that he made had none of Nathan's subtlety; he sounded eager, hungry, and pornographically horny. As usual. Maybe even more than usual. Peter hadn't begged this time, only waited and hoped, and now here it was - the undeniable symbol of Nathan's lust, inside his mouth.
Nathan smiled and relaxed into it for a moment, relishing this moment of taking back authority. He sat up on his knees, spreading his legs and sliding onto one of the dry towels (he was nothing if not a gracious guest), grasping Peter by the hair and directing him to follow. Peter gave a helpless-sounding sigh, hardly allowing contact to break even for a moment. "Who wants it, huh? Who the fuck wants it?" Nathan taunted, watching Peter scrambling to keep up, panting in his effort, but keeping his mouth open. Nathan decided not to give Peter a chance to keep up, because Peter just looked so fucking sexy when he was a little confused, his feelings a little hurt, but the urgency of the blood pounding in his groin making him stay with it, get stronger. Sacrifice pride. Learn. "Do you a fuckin' favor," he completed his own thought out loud. "That what you need?" he continued, thrusting with his hips, slowly and gently fucking Peter's mouth. "Is that what you needed all weekend? A nice, big cock in your mouth?"
Peter drew his head back and gasped for breath. "That's what I've been trying to say," he said, looking at Nathan and then rolling his eyes.
It irritated Nathan, having Peter answer a purely and obviously rhetorical question. It was a childish, bratty thing to do; Peter's stock in trade. "Shut up," he muttered. He grabbed Peter by the hair again, and this time he did force Peter down until half of Nathan's cock was in his mouth, and held Peter very still by the hair. By the look on his face, it was uncomfortable, but Peter couldn't speak, couldn't resist, couldn't get away. Nathan resumed thrusting, a little harder this time, then a little harder than he should have. It just felt so good; it just looked so good. Nathan's own ruthlessness pleased him. "Is that it? Is that what you're looking for?" he muttered.
Peter throat abruptly seized - Nathan would feel shame later for how good that felt - and he tapped two fingers against Nathan's thigh. No matter how ruthless he was, Nathan had to abide by certain rules; he let Peter go. It happened so rarely. Peter could always take it, whatever "it" was. They'd agreed a long time ago that if it went too far, they could tap out, since they'd both done enough sport-wrestling to notice and respond to the signal without even having to think about it. Nathan couldn't remember the last time that Peter had made him stop doing anything - he'd been willing to force his gag reflex before - and Nathan only stopped Peter when what he was doing would leave a mark. He would never tell Peter to stop just because something was unbearably painful. Peter usually didn't, either. It must have been pretty serious.
As soon as his mouth was free, Peter broke into brief, violent coughing, and tears streaked over his bright red face. "Fuck you," he hissed.
Nathan leaned in to look at Peter more closely, unable to hide his concern, an apology hovering on his lips. With startling strength, Peter knocked Nathan the rest of the way over, his head avoiding the sharp corner of the nightstand byinches. Peter leaned over Nathan, and spit at him, a froth of saliva landing on Nathan's chest. Nathan saw red, and felt almost dizzy from the overwhelming combination of anger and lust. "Fuck you," Nathan countered, then, his growling voice descending softly into a purr, "ahhhhh... fuck you..." as Peter rubbed the spit into Nathan's nipples, wetting them, rolling them tightly between his fingertips, putting his lips to them, his tongue, moistening them even more. Lightly biting them, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make them spring up hard and rigid and terrifically sensitive. Just enough to hurt a little.
As much as he loved it, Nathan didn't want to take any chances; there'd be no way he could hide (or explain) bruised nipples. He grabbed Peter roughly by the hair and yanked Peter's face back toward his cock. Instead of opening his mouth and sucking, like a good boy, Peter spit on him again, saliva dripping down Nathan's cock and pooling against his balls. Fresh tears ran down Peter's furious, defiant face, his dilated eyes appearing far more green than brown, as if the tears were washing his irises, revealing the strange, opalescent jade underneath. It was just a trick of the light, the angle of his head, but so beautiful.
Still, not beautiful enough to relieve Nathan's anger. "Oh, it's like that, is it, tough guy?" Nathan whispered, pulling Peter's hair hard, hard enough to make him shout in protest, his voice loud and desperate enough to make Nathan reflexively let go. But Nathan grabbed Peter's shoulders and wrestled Peter down to the surface of the bed, fingers digging deeply into Peter's straining flesh. He locked his knee across Peter's thighs, trapping him in place. Peter struggled hard, but couldn't resist simple, superior physical strength. He was wiry and tougher than he looked, but the months of inadequate nutrition had taken their toll. He surrendered, relaxing, submitting underneath Nathan; when Nathan took his hands away to run them over Peter's body, the indentations left by his fingers stood out in bright pink welts on the pale skin. He could always mark Peter; there was no one Peter had to hide from.
Peter lay still, but trembling, eyes closed and his face turned away, sucking on his pinky finger. His cheeks were wet and red and blotchy. He looked devastated, too broken even to be afraid. Nathan wished that he could think of something, anything to say. A comfort or a challenge, or an explanation of himself. But there was no way that words would convey even a fraction of all the things he felt. Instead, Nathan kissed Peter's cheek, gently licking the salt trails of his tears. Peter cringed away, but his hips rose eagerly against Nathan's thigh, pressing his moist cock, exuding a slippery trail of fresh pre-come, against Nathan's belly.
Nathan felt the sudden urge to backhand Peter to make him stop crying, stop making Nathan feel like an evil, heartless monster ravishing a child, and get into it. But of course Peter was already into it, had been for a long time, far longer than Nathan had been. Peter had been having sex, since they got in the car at the parents' house, and had just been waiting for them to take their clothes off, waiting for Nathan to catch up. God knew... for years, he'd been into it, and willing to follow wherever Nathan led, willing to show Nathan the way, so reckless and brave and trusting and stubborn. So faithful, always believing in the truth of this, believing enough for the both of them.
Sweet, dirty little boy, my adorable pervert, my beautiful, totally and forever sex slave.
He had to do something. He just couldn't bring himself to hit Peter in the face, and Peter obviously didn't want to be kissed again. Instead, he turned Peter over and held him face-down against the bed, and struck Peter's behind hard, chuckling as he watched the flesh quiver and redden; he spanked the other cheek, then the first one, harder. Peter moaned and clenched the pillow in his fists until his knuckles turned white. Nathan gripped the reddened flesh of Peter's buttock, digging his fingers in deep, then slapping again, watching the welts turn a darker red.
Peter gave a shaky whisper: "Y-yeah-h-h..."
Nathan straddled Peter's thighs, and hastily grabbed the lube, pouring out a big puddle of the clear liquid into his palm. It was enough to generously slick up his whole hand, and leave the fingers of the other hand slippery, too. "You're so bad," Nathan murmured. "What am I gonna do with you? I can't spank you; you like that too much." He edged Peter's legs apart with his knee, and plunged two fingers deep into Peter's asshole. Peter grunted sharply, muffled by the bedclothes. The tension along the back of his neck, his shoulders, showed Nathan that Peter was biting down hard on the blankets. But it was easy to penetrate him; it couldn't possibly have hurt, not with all that lube. Peter wasn't brand-new anymore. He'd had his ass fucked dozens of times. But not very recently... because Peter didn't let anyone else but Nathan fuck him, and Nathan hadn't in months... too long.
Nathan sighed, pulling his fingers out, jerking on his own dick with the lightly-lubed fingers of his left hand. He slid three right-hand fingers into Peter, slowly spreading the fingers apart. Not too much; just enough. Peter's whole body twitched, and he opened his legs wide, arching up slightly onto his knees, presenting himself, then bucking back hard against Nathan's hand. Peter's breath came in urgent, hyperventilating gasps.
"You like that, too?" Nathan asked, taking his hand off his dick, holding Peter's hip instead, thrusting his fingers into Peter, his forearm muscles rippling, using the muscles of his biceps and shoulders to intensify the motion. "Oh, what am I gonna do with you, bad boy?" He added another finger, and... Peter was nearly singing.
"Please... please... please..."
Nathan felt a white-hot, urgent need crackling through his body, knowing that if he didn't change direction now, he'd end up elbow-deep inside Peter and Peter would never tell him no. Nathan withdrew his fingers, wiping them off on the dry towel underneath them, and grabbed Peter's hip, smoothly turning him face-up. Peter's eyes stayed closed, but his hands blindly felt for Nathan, stroking Nathan's chest and his side, finding Nathan's penis and holding onto it, as if it would steady him.
"Come on," said Nathan, kissing the florid bruises on Peter's shoulders, "it's time for you to get fucked. Come on." He lay on his back, holding Peter's hip and the opposite thigh, bringing him closer, pulling him on top. Peter moved up, opening his legs, bracing himself with his knees spread across Nathan's hips, and angled himself down, sliding himself onto Nathan's cock, moaning terribly as it went deep inside him.
Nathan arched up, too, slamming them together, and Peter's moan became a throaty, desperate cry. "Oh, God... ohhhhh...!" He sounded like he was dying, but his tight little body immediately began posting up and down, swiftly riding Nathan's cock. Nathan answered his moans, rising so far off the bed that only the sides of his ankles and his shoulder blades still had contact with the surface, savagely meeting Peter's thrusts. Not only was Nathan balls-deep inside, the combination of their movements created a sharp, slamming effect. It had to be hurting Peter beyond imagination, but Peter was doing it - Peter was fucking himself hard, using Nathan's cock to stab himself, Nathan's matching thrusts plunging in further. Working together to fuck Peter as deeply as physically possible.
Without warning, Peter stopped, and just hung there, twitching, Nathan's cock still buried inside, and his mouth closed over his staggered moans. At first, Nathan thought Peter was coming, but instead, the moans slowly, but definitively, became sobs - hard, closed-mouth, convulsive sobs. Still more tears ran from his eyes. Nathan watched this transformation, feeling somewhat impatient, sheer lust making him distant from this emotional display. We're supposed to be fucking - what the hell are you crying about? he thought. We don't have time for this. I'm trying to get you off. What's the matter now?
He held Peter still and thrust up into him a few times, but Peter kept sobbing. Nathan sat up, raising his knees, holding Peter steady, cupping Peter's back in his arms. Peter stopped crying as soon as Nathan held him, then threw back his head and gave a heavy sigh. "I love you," he said thickly.
Nathan felt like a wave had crashed over his head, his heart clenching hard inside his chest. He loves me. The stupid kid loves me. Oh, God, and I love him too; we're both stupid and fucked up and this is impossible. No matter how hard or how deep I fuck you, you fuck me where no one else can touch, and leave me raw inside. It was all he could do not to start crying himself. He kissed Peter on the cheeks, then on the lips, his mouth closed, gentle, undemanding, affectionate but clearly sensual. Now, Peter kissed back gratefully, articulating his kisses so that Nathan could hear every one. Finally Peter turned away, breathing hard. When he tried to angle his body back, but couldn't because of the cock inside him, he flinched. "Hurts?" Nathan murmured, caressing the small of Peter's back, leaning back a little bit to give Peter a better range of movement.
"I deserve it." Peter slid his lower legs forward, so that he now rested in the cradle of Nathan's thighs. His body moved again slowly, more back-and-forth than straight up-and-down, easier now that he had Nathan supporting his back. He was almost too breathless to speak, his words forced out between desperate gasps. "I want it." He struggled to smile, but, distorted through lust and pain, it was more of a snarl. "I've been good."
Nathan leaned back, matching Peter's strokes, his eyes rolling to the ceiling and then clenching shut as he grasped the meaning of Peter's words - he didn't feel this pain as punishment; it was his reward. Nathan shuddered, then moaned aloud, shaking his head in understanding and dismay; he was the just the same. But only with Peter; only for Peter.
"You haven't been good." Nathan sat up more, and kissed him again, and then some more. "You've been bad; you've been very bad. You make me hurt you. Are you a brat just so you can... make me hurt you..." Holding Peter. Letting Peter drive, letting Peter take what he wanted. Faster. "I don't want to hurt you... but oh, I know how you want it..." Matching him, their hips moving in sync with their rapid, frantic breathing. "God... but I do want to hurt you... it just feels so good... gets you off so hard..."
They fucked faster still, Peter's ass slapping against Nathan's thighs, their bodies moving away and together, their angled bodies mirroring each other, Peter's hands on the bed and Nathan's hands on Peter's back, holding him, supporting him, even though Peter didn't need the support. He was strong enough for this, somehow. And then, for just a second, Peter's body went limp and his eyes rolled back; he twitched, blinked his eyes back into alignment, and resumed his ride, even harder than before. It looked like nothing so much as Peter nodding off to sleep. When Nathan realized how unlikely that was, he had to acknowledge that Peter had just lost consciousness for a moment, and that he'd just fucked Peter to the point of passing out.
That was it for him.
Nathan squeezed Peter tightly against him, quaking hard. An unbelievable orgasm swept through him from the top of his head to his fingertips and toes and every part in between, rising, mounting in intensity, staggering him. He let Peter go and flung himself back to the surface of the bed, groaning insensibly, "No... no... oh God please, oh God please don't end, please..." Thirty seconds of sublime, humbling, thigh-quivering bliss, absolutely perfect, a high like flying into space, zooming above the clouds; he felt almost like passing out himself, and like crying when he descended to earth, grasping helplessly at nothing, trying to hang onto something to keep him there.
But, of course, it had to end sometime. His body went limp, and he descended sadly to the ordinary world.
He hadn't come that hard since he was a teenager, with the famous five-thousand-dollar-a-night prostitute - the one who had figured out just by looking at him that he might want something up his ass while he got his dick sucked. Nathan usually came pretty hard with Peter, but now that Nathan wasn't a kid anymore, he'd given up on ever again having an orgasm so blindingly wonderful that the knowledge that the climax would end was grief itself.
But if anyone could bring him back there, it was Peter.
Peter disentangled himself from Nathan and got up, standing for a moment beside the bed, breathing hard with his hand to his forehead, Nathan's semen glistening on the backs of his thighs. Nathan held out one hand to him, still not able to speak yet; the other hand carefully, but energetically, stroking his painfully sensitive cock, trying to keep it hard. Peter narrowed his eyes at Nathan a bit, as if to say, Aren't you done yet? But he couldn't keep the smile off his face entirely.
He rested one foot on the bed, grabbed one of the damp towels, and wiped his behind and his thighs, showing off. Nathan relaxed his arm, his eyes drawn like a magnet to the sight - the well-fucked asshole, low-hanging balls, and the cock so hard it was dark-red and standing up against Peter's stomach. He knew Nathan loved to see what he'd done; sometimes the sight was enough to keep Nathan going. Peter put on a little show, lightly stroking his cock, slipping a finger into his moist and swollen hole. "Ow," he whispered, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting. "Ooh. You were just there. Hurting me... inside."
Nathan broke into a grin. "I wasn't hurting you, faker."
The show was over all too soon. "Yeah, you were," Peter replied sulkily. "You and your big Italian dick." He lowered his foot to the floor, and drank for a long time from the glass of water on the nightstand. He handed the glass to the thirsty and grateful Nathan while he opened the nightstand's little side drawer again. He brought out a Ricola throat drop, unwrapped the wax paper wrapper, and put it into his mouth, the scent of strange herbs and mints suddenly wafting through the room.
"You've got a big Italian dick, too," Nathan murmured, setting the glass down with a little water left in the bottom. Peter chuckled, and drained the glass. "Hey... I'm sorry I throat-fucked you..."
"Tsk!... You don't even know what I'm doing," Peter replied, the herbal lozenge clacking against his teeth. He spit the cough drop back into the wrapper, dropped it into the wastebasket, then returned to bed. Nathan opened his arms and embraced him, kissing his ears, but Peter edged away from the kisses again. Instead, he slid his hands under Nathan's knees, and bent them upward toward his shoulders, showing him off. Peter gave Nathan's vitals a good look, licking his lips. Nathan wished that his own cock was as hard as Peter's; Peter's was gorgeous, thick and rigid and twitching, the head still gleaming with fresh seminal fluid. Peter let one of Nathan's legs go, and Nathan obligingly kept his knee raised, wondering what, exactly, Peter was doing. Willing to go along with it, whatever it was.
Apparently, he was producing a generous mouthful of saliva, which he spit into his palm, and rubbed lightly onto his cock, his fingers moving up and down on the shaft. Coating the surface, not rubbing it in. Not jacking off with it. With his free hand, Peter prodded the spit-wet head of his cock between Nathan's buttocks, slipping along until he made contact with Nathan's asshole, and then sharply - oh so sharply - thrusting his way inside.
Nathan screamed, because they were alone, and he could, and the mint in the cough drop had gotten into Peter's saliva and then onto his cock and now it was inside Nathan, tingling, stretching him, and he wasn't even close to ready and it -
"Hurts?" Peter hissed, his breath shaking out in a bitter laugh. "Good, 'cause I love to hurt you."
"Fuck... yeah it hurts!" Nathan cried out. "My God, Pete!... oh!..."
That kind of pain... that kind of helpless but consensual submission... every detail reminded him so much of Nathan's first time, the way he had described it to Peter, in a breathless whisper, years ago, back when Peter was still new to fucking. Just spit, too horny to be careful and too desperate to be nice, because we need it right now - and a trace of toothpaste and mint mouthwash still in his mouth - oh God, burning like fire but oh yes, oh yes. But Peter had never done it before now. It was stupid and dangerous and desperate and oh so perfect, that terrible culmination of desire for something he didn't even want to acknowledge. Like Peter. Like having a cock in his ass in the first place. Like this. Like embracing the fear and the hurt, and having to recognize it, and accept it as part of him, or risk losing a part of himself forever. But oh, so dangerous, the sweetly stinging, throbbing pain, the ravenous desire for more.
We can't do this. And I'll die if we stop.
Peter only thrust into him a few times, each stroke dragging ragged cries from Nathan's lungs, then stopped as soon as he'd gotten his cock all the way inside. He gently wiped the sweat on Nathan's forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you want to get fucked," he asked, "or do you want to swallow my come?"
Nathan said shakily, "S-s-swallow, swallow, please."
"You don't want me to rip up your ass?" Peter gave him another solid thrust. "Dry and rough? I'll do it. I'll fuck you right up."
"Peter, please! Oh - oh, please. Don't." Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, and felt Peter's fingers gently brushing his temple. The side of his face was cool and wet, his eyes were burning; it took him a moment to understand that he was weeping. It wasn't entirely from the pain, but the tears wouldn't have happened without it. Peter always understood this ritual of submission and confession so much better than Nathan ever could. Nathan's authority was and always had been an illusion. "I promise to be nice. I promise to be nice from now on - just please, don't."
"Admit that you'd love it." Peter circled his hips, bringing his damp hand to his lips, tasting the tears.
"I ahhh - I admit it. You know I'd love it. I want you to fuck me till I can't move... Oh... oh, baby, you fuck so good, so good..." Nathan rambled dizzily, feverishly masturbating himself, convinced that he could come again if he just didn't stop.
Peter pulled out with painstaking slowness, and wiped himself off again, tossing the towel over his shoulder onto the floor. He held his cock close to Nathan's mouth, and jerked off hard and fast, within seconds ejaculating copiously onto Nathan's face. Nathan didn't dare keep his eyes open, but the one tiny glimpse of the smile on Peter's face was enough to make his heart skip, then send his pulse surging into his groin. Nathan opened his mouth, but Peter didn't really bother to aim there, only a few, precious, stray jets landing on Nathan's tongue. At the taste of come, at the feel of the warm jets hitting his face, Nathan climaxed again, but compared to his last orgasm, this one was just an afterthought.
Peter moaned the same short "Ah" over and over again, like a skipping record. When his voice finally changed to a soft gasp of completion, Nathan closed his mouth and swallowed, opening his eyes. Peter stared back at him with his eyebrows raised. "Wow," he sighed, grinning, tracing his finger through the semen dripping down Nathan's face, "I didn't think I had it in me."
Nathan smiled at him. "I always knew."
Peter picked up a fresh damp towel, and handed it to Nathan. "Wipe your face, slut; you look disgusting," he said lovingly. His tough, disinterested demeanor was fading rapidly.
Nathan shook his head, rubbing his cheeks with his fingers and then sucking them clean. "Nooo... no, it's good for the skin. Since you shot it on my face instead of in my mouth, like you told me you were going to..."
"I wanted to see it," Peter whispered. "I wanted to watch. To see you take it. Here, don't eat it all, you nasty sicko." He broke off, kissing Nathan's mouth, rubbing his cheeks against Nathan's cheeks, making his own face a sticky mess. He pulled back and laughed, basking in the sound of his laughter and Nathan's together. And how long had it been since they'd shared a laugh? Peter wrote something Nathan couldn't decipher with the spunk on Nathan's belly, then sealed it with a kiss.
They wiped each other clean with the now-cold damp towels. Lying side by side, they wrapped their arms around each other, clinging tight, legs entwined, faces close enough to kiss, stroking each other's backs, chests, buttocks. Nathan asked, running his fingers along the bumpy ridges of Peter's spine, "Are you still mad?"
Peter sleepily replied, "About what?"
Nathan laughed, and then Peter laughed. "I'm sorry I hit you," Peter said comfortably, snuggling even closer. "It just ... wasn't the right setting for me to fuck you hard in the ass and then gag you with my dick... I'm sure you understand."
"How's it look?" Nathan asked, touching the tender spot on his jaw.
Peter examined it carefully, touching the jawbone, stretching the skin a little to test its elasticity and check for swelling. "It's fine," he said. "You shouldn't have a bruise or anything."
"See? I told you jizz was good for the skin." Nathan stretched lazily, arching his whole body against Peter's, from neck to feet, then lay still but for his fingers tracing circles at the base of Peter's spine. "We shouldn't fuck so hard," Nathan murmured.
Peter kissed him some more. "I'm okay," he said. "We can play nice next time. You didn't do any damage, I don't think."
"I think you did," said Nathan, half-joking. He resolved that the next time he stretched, he'd do it more slowly and carefully.
"Did I?" Peter rolled his eyes innocently. He didn't seem overly concerned. "You should be more nice to me, then."
"I promise I'll try," Nathan said, all sincerity.
"For next time?" Peter quirked a drowsy version of his best lopsided smile.
"Yeah," Nathan whispered, kissing the smile, "next time."
They both closed their eyes, and within seconds, fell asleep.
~~~~~
SUNDAY.
Angela Petrelli was surprised to see both of her sons present for Sunday brunch.
Nathan and Heidi, without the kids, arrived on time and in subdued good spirits. More than anything, they looked like they hadn't gotten enough sleep, but not with the kind of lingering intimacy that meant that they'd been up all night having sex. But not fighting, either; just not as cozy as usual. More like the delicate forgiveness stage.
But Peter also showed up, about fifteen minutes afterward, just as they had started eating. Angela actually got out of her seat to hug and kiss him. "Peter! What a surprise!" she said. "I didn't think we'd see you."
"Well," Peter confessed with a grin, "I still don't have any food at home."
"Nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, staring at him oddly, with a hint of a smile on her face. "How are you doing?"
"I'm really hungry," he said, piling a plate with toast and scrambled eggs. "I went to sleep after we got back from the zoo, and I slept straight through to this morning. So I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."
"Oh, you went to the zoo?" Angela asked. "That must have been nice."
"Yeah, the monkeys were really great," Peter replied.
"So are you two on good terms now?" Angela said pointedly, looking at both of them.
"Yeah, we worked it out," Peter said with a shrug.
Heidi and Angela both stared at Nathan then, and Nathan shrugged too, sipping his coffee. "We apologized," Nathan said. "We fought a little more first, but... it's all right, ladies. I think Peter just needs to eat more regularly."
"No arguments here," Peter agreed.
"I see," said Angela with a distracted smile.
They ate in silence for several minutes. After Peter had finished his plate, he said hesitantly, "Sorry. I guess I was a lot more stressed out than I thought I was."
"That's all right, Peter," Angela replied.
"Maybe next year, I'll... do better..." Peter gave a sheepish grin. "If I'm still welcome."
"You're always welcome, Peter."
Angela reached over and squeezed Peter's forearm, the contact reinforcing her words. Peter gazed lovingly at her, then filled his plate a second time. He looked over at Heidi and smiled at her, too, and she sighed, smiling back. "Wanna come over and babysit for extra cash?" she asked, with a laugh in her voice. "You could try out some of your nursing skills on some very uncooperative patients."
Peter laughed too. "Totally," he said. "I mean, I wish I could. I have to actually go to work tonight. I've got to lay down some overtime to cover, y'know, Christmas." He looked over at Nathan, who gazed at him steadily, but without intensity. "Maybe once I'm out of school, things will calm down a little bit. And then... I'd be happy to sit for the kids any time."
"I'll send you home with with leftovers," Angela said matter-of-factly. "We don't want you starving to death."
After the meal, Peter was helping in the kitchen, and Nathan approached him, plucking at Peter's shirt sleeve. "Got a minute?" he asked, and Peter nodded and set down the dirty dish in his hand.
Outside in the courtyard, Nathan put out his hand; Peter grasped Nathan's thumb, the way he did when he was too small to actually hold Nathan's whole hand. "You good today?" Nathan asked softly.
"I'm great today," Peter replied. "You?"
"My tits are a little swollen," Nathan said under his breath. His mouth twitched, resisting a smile.
"How's your ass?" inquired Peter, in the same tiny, parenthetical voice, fainter than a whisper, that only they could hear, and that only because they were touching.
"Sore," said Nathan. "Feels good. Nice to have something to remember it by."
Peter smiled enough for both of them. "No blood or anything?"
"Just a little," Nathan replied matter-of-factly. "Yesterday, after I woke up. I let you sleep; you're like a log. On a morphine drip." He couldn't resist smiling back at Peter. "It's nothing. I'm fine. But... don't ever do that again. It's really dangerous."
"What if we're stranded on a desert island, and there's no lube?"
"Pray for coconut oil." Nathan glanced back through the glass doors, to the inside of the house. "I gotta go. Be careful, okay?" He spoke in a normal tone now.
Peter still smiled, too, but his eyes became sad. "You too, huh?" he said. "I care about you too. Love you."
"Love you too, Pete." Nathan gently stroked Peter's palm with his fingers. "And... thank you."
"Any time," Peter whispered. "I'm yours."
They hugged each other, finishing with brotherly pats on the back, then kissed each other on both cheeks.
"Happy holidays," Peter said, letting go.
THE END
A/N: Oddly enough, on the day I finished the final draft, I randomly found a stuffed toy colobus monkey - you know, the kind of stuffie monkeys that have velcro on its paws, so you can hang it from things or carry it around your neck. I took it as a sign. ^_^
Thanks to my betas, indyhat and 47_trek_47. Couldn't have done it
without you - and special thanks to artist deani-bean for that AMAZING illustration, and to linaerys and technosage for moderating the Big Boom Challenge! ... also, thank you to everyone who has given me positive feedback over the last several months - you have encouraged and helped me to become a better writer, and it has been a pleasure to entertain you and learn from you.
Roll on "Generations"!
My inspirations:
• "Ain't that Peculiar" by Marvin Gaye
• Our Inner Ape by Frans deWaal
• Wikipedia for help with Thanksgiving Day football games (the Indianapolis Colts won that year, btw), the colobus monkeys at the Central Park Zoo, the New York Coalition for the Homeless, and heck, almost everything
• Heroes Wiki for everything else
• all that wonderfully dirty, wonderfully clever smutfic I've been lucky enough to read, and which showed me that there don't really need to be any limits
• a wonderful little show called Heroes, created by Tim Kring and a wildly talented group of filmmakers, especially my OTP BFFs, Milo Ventimiglia and Adrian Pasdar - long may they love
*******
Back to Part Two
Back to Part One
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit m/m sex, power/pain play, alcohol use, angst, language
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: During the Thanksgiving holiday, Peter and Nathan struggle to communicate with each other. Their tangled web of fear, desire, and love threatens to tear them apart, but instead holds the key to keeping them together. Written for the heroes_bigboom Challenge!
Part Three
"My place," Peter said.
They were the only words spoken on the drive downtown. Peter switched the radio on, quietly, and found his favorite pirate station on the dial. They were playing lightly remixed Miles Davis. Nathan left it on, half listening to the music, and half listening to the sound of Peter's deep, accelerated breathing, occasionally punctuated with a sigh or a barely audible moan, squirming a little in his seat, like he was immersed in a highly sensual dream. Peter wasn't touching himself, though; Nathan would have been able to see that out the corner of his eye.
Nathan wanted to say something, but Peter was just being so quiet, so delicious, forcing Nathan to confront his own thoughts without the outlet of speech. Talking relieved tension, and that was the last thing that Peter seemed to want. Nathan found his own breathing suddenly heavier as he tried in vain to calm himself, but he perceived every tiny circle that Peter made with his hips that rubbed his ass against the car seat, every subtle strain that Peter made against his seat belt, as if silently protesting its bondage. The music was the opposite of soothing, but not grating, either; instead it pressed urgently forward, eagerly seeking a future release that seemed right around the next measure, but kept moving away.
Nathan wondered if Peter was getting as hard as he was.
Peter's mind was elsewhere, floating in the half-blissful, half-crazy white noise of his thoughts, the mental state that always took over when he knew for certain that he and Nathan would soon be playing, having sex, fucking, screwing around, whatever terminology you wanted to use. Together. He couldn't examine his thoughts directly - it would be like looking at the sun - so he just let them wash over him, making no attempt to hang onto or make sense of any of them. If he thought too much about Nathan's body, or the loss of control that Nathan had to be experiencing, or what Nathan might do to him (or God forbid, what that might feel like), Peter would just come in his pants and make a mess. It had happened before, coming just by thinking about Nathan biting sucking spreading twitching after days of unsatisfied desire. Peter didn't want that. He wanted every time he came because of Nathan to be significant and shared, and if he couldn't have that, he wanted it to be secret, swift, and private.
So he just sat there, and listened to the radio, and loved the pirate radio station, the DJ mixing together Bitches Brew and some other odd, clicky mid-tempo drum break, and some spoken word, maybe Timothy Leary?... no, it was Allen Ginsberg, reading from Howl... and that was both good and bad, because it was poetry about assfucking and transcendence, and Peter didn't really need any more thoughts about either one of those things. Fortunately that poetry track gently faded away and disappeared just in time for the rising swell of the trumpet to emerge, and Peter couldn't help moaning, and then gave a soft, faint laugh of relief and delight. Across the front seat of the car, Nathan sighed in answer, but sounded more annoyed than anything else.
Peter just kept smiling. Soon.
Finally, they arrived at Peter's apartment building, and Nathan parked in the underground garage. Peter jumped out of the car and hurried toward the elevators before Nathan had even turned off the ignition. He'd have liked to get into the elevator first, too, and watch the door close on his brother, but the elevator took a long time to come and Nathan caught up. His expression was cold and aggravated, but his erection made a slight bump against the drape of the front of his coat. Peter stared at the protrusion, trying not to smile; he had a hard-on, too, so there was no call for him to feel superior. Besides, superior - what the fuck was that? Nobody was superior here. They were both in the wrong, and Peter didn't know exactly what kind of "comfort" Nathan sought. He had the feeling that it would come at a high price.
That was the other part of keeping his thoughts vague - it was a way of fighting off fear. Nathan had never hit Peter, but that didn't mean that he never would, or that Peter didn't deserve it. When Peter was younger, before they had ever gone all the way, he would fantasize about Nathan hitting him almost the same half-terrified, half-longing way he thought about Nathan fucking him. It was all scary, and the idea of being punched in the face was almost less frightening than being fucked. It still scared him. If Peter didn't want to feel Nathan inside him so badly, he'd never dare.
But he did want it; he did need it. He needed to trust Nathan that much more, and he believed that Nathan was worthy of that trust. The worst he'd done was made Peter sore for a day, and really, that was okay.
They didn't speak in the elevator, keeping to their separate corners, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the metal box.
Nathan arched his eyebrow at the messiness of Peter's apartment, but said nothing. Peter turned to face Nathan, looking into his eyes briefly; Nathan had no expression. Peter turned away, hung up his coat and suit jacket, making himself busy. He went into his bathroom, and came back with his arms full of towels. Nathan hung up his coat too, and watched curiously as Peter walked past him into the kitchen, pretending to ignore him.
Nathan followed him, and leaned against the wall, several feet away. Peter took off his button-down shirt and dropped it carelessly on the kitchen table, then began running hot water into the sink, keeping his back to Nathan, steam curling up around him.
Nathan enjoyed the opportunity to openly stare at Peter, in private and alone. Here, he could examine the pale column of Peter's neck, his shoulders, his perfect back, Peter's shoulder blades moving fluidly under the white cotton of his T-shirt. Arms lean, but well-muscled, well-defined. An enviably narrow waist; the swell of the prominently curved rump. The Petrelli ass. Nathan chuckled to himself; he had it too, but his stuck out even more. He'd never noticed his own until he started noticing Peter's. And it had taken even longer for him to admit to himself that he had ever noticed Peter's.
A guy's not supposed to look at his brother's ass like that.
Nathan stumbled at this roadblock of shame, and retreated back into himself, not seeing Peter anymore even though he still had his eyes trained in that direction. He didn't notice Peter shutting off the water and dipping some of the smaller towels into it, wringing them out, then tossing the damp towels into a large mixing bowl. He didn't even notice Peter turning around and staring at him until Peter spoke.
"Nathan," he said.
"What?" Nathan responded, startled back to the room.
Peter looked him up and down critically. "Take off your clothes," he said, then turned back to the sink.
For a moment, Nathan just stood there.
"What are you waiting for?" Peter said. "Do it. Or go home. You fucking pussy."
Nathan narrowed his eyes, then slowly loosened his tie. Peter shook his head, methodically wringing out wet towels, but didn't turn around until he heard the sound of a zipper. Peter tried to just look over his shoulder, but soon he turned all the way around to face Nathan, regarding him with mild interest. He watched Nathan step out of his shoes, slide his trousers down and off, untuck and remove his shirt, and pull off the silk undershirt, folding everything carefully over the back of a kitchen chair. It was too brisk, but tentative, to be a strip tease, but Nathan didn't rush himself; he just didn't put on a show, either.
Nathan tried to meet Peter's eyes, but Peter was focused on Nathan's body - the torso, the arms and shoulders, the legs. Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that he was being judged. Well, he had nothing to be ashamed of; Nathan knew he was in impeccable shape. He looked the way he wanted to look, and had been told time and time again that he was beautiful.
But Peter glanced at Nathan's underwear, and slowly shook his head. "Scared," he said, his voice too flat for it to be a question.
Nathan smirked at Peter, and pulled his shorts down and off, exposing his cock, which was swollen and heavy but not quite hard. He enjoyed Peter's expression of momentary weakness - the lowering of the lashes, the faint blush that spread across his cheeks, the sigh - and waited to hear Peter moan and beg to touch.
Instead Peter said, "Get on your knees and suck my dick."
It wasn't the dirtiest thing that Nathan had ever heard him say - by far - but the abruptness of it, the apparent lack of any feeling about it, startled Nathan a bit. Nathan was being told what to do with all the dull, perfunctory authority of a bored john talking to a five-dollar whore whom he considered to be overpriced. It wasn't like Peter at all.
But the strangeness of it got Nathan hot.
He approached Peter, and slowly got onto his knees on the none-too-clean kitchen rug in front of Peter, who made no move to unfasten his clothes. "Go on," Peter said, trying to maintain his distant tone, but it just couldn't hold; his voice began to quiver before he'd even half finished. "Open my zipper, pull it out, put it in your mouth. Suck it."
Nathan closed his eyes briefly, shame washing over him again; how many times had he been just that imperious, that commanding to Peter? How many times had he been cruel when he knew that Peter wanted him so badly he could hardly think, how many times had he made Peter beg for it? How much did Peter love it, that he'd beg? Either the whole point of it, for Peter, was the begging, or else Peter begged even though he didn't want to... Why am I so mean to him? I love him.
But Nathan wasn't being begged right now. He was being told. He shook his head lightly, then undid Peter's belt, loosening the waistband and unzipping the fly, but not taking Peter's trousers down. Nathan hadn't been told to do that. He'd been given very specific instructions.
I tell you what I need, Nathan remembered.
Nathan pulled Peter's cock through the flap in the front of his dark-blue boxer-briefs, and brought it to his mouth. He couldn't resist a faint, shaky moan of joy as soon as he felt the smooth skin and the blood-urged stiffness against his tongue. Nathan sucked deeply and avidly, taking Peter all the way back to the entrance of his throat, carefully holding his breath, and swallowing, knowing that it created a vacuum of almost unbearable pressure. To his credit, not only did Peter not lose it on the spot, but he even kept his vocal response to a bare, faintly hummed minimum. "Yeah," he whispered, biting his lip, sighing. "That's right. That's what you want."
It was far from being all that Nathan wanted, but his mouth was too full to talk back. He concentrated instead on giving head like a five-thousand-dollar whore, slurping, licking, pressing the cockhead between his tongue and palate, occasionally looking up and meeting Peter's eyes. No matter how much Peter tried to keep his cool, he was no match for that kind of technique. Within a few moments, Peter was open-mouth sighing and circling his hips in time with the slow rise and fall of Nathan's mouth. His fingers rested lightly on the back of Nathan's neck, running up through Nathan's hair, clenching it, but gently and briefly before letting go again. Peter wasn't forcing anything, and through his haze of lust, Nathan felt annoyed and impatient. He wanted Peter to be rough with him. He reached in again, and drew out Peter's balls, running his tongue between them and up the under-ridge of Peter's cock, then enclosed the shaft in his mouth again. "Oh, yeah," Peter moaned out loud, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as he stepped closer to Nathan, onto the rug.
Nathan's mouth filled with a sudden salty, slippery moisture, and he drew his head back, swirling the clear, glistening fluid around the head of Peter's cock with his tongue. Then he drew away completely, and stood up, giving Peter a pointed, contemptuous look. Peter stared back, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open, his delicious, crookedly drooping lower lip the same bright, wet pink as the head of his cock. Nathan dove in and kissed that lip, opened Peter's mouth with his, and slid his tongue inside. Nathan grabbed Peter around the waist and yanked him in close, crushing him, then pushing him back, hands running possessively down Peter's back to grab and knead his ass, and clutching Peter against him again, demonstrating the roughness he wanted.
Nathan pulled Peter's T-shirt up over his head; Peter obligingly wriggled up out of it, only willing to relinquish the kiss for the bare second it took the shirt to pass across his face. Nathan stroked up the sensitive ridges of Peter's ribs, then down to the firm curves of his stomach muscles, pushed Peter's pants down his hips until they fell around his ankles. Nathan pushed the elastic waistband of Peter's boxers down until it caught against the barrier of Peter's stiff, straining cock. Nathan yanked the shorts down over it, making the elastic snap against Peter's balls; he moaned hard into Nathan's mouth.
By then, the flavor of Peter's pre-come had vanished from their kiss. Nathan let go completely, stepping back until he felt the cold bare linoleum against the soles of his feet. Peter looked even more lustfully absurd, standing there against his kitchen sink with his pants around his ankles and his hair disheveled. Nathan smiled a little, then turned and walked away, heading across to the living room, to Peter's bed. "Scared?" Nathan murmured.
Peter followed a minute later, naked now, carrying a big glass of water, the bowl of wet towels, and the armload of dry towels. He set the wet towels on his nightstand, shoving textbooks aside with his wrist, and tossed two of the dry towels onto the bed. From the drawer in the nightstand, he produced the large bottle of Nathan's favorite lube that Nathan had left here, last time, and set it on the tabletop with a definitive tap.
Nathan sat on the edge of the bed, one fist curled around his cock, stroking himself quickly and lightly, not rushing himself. They had time, this time. This was no quickie in someone's bathroom; they had carte blanche to do as they liked, to do what they needed to do, for as long as was necessary. He wondered how much time they could get away with. All night? Tomorrow, too? Or was that cheating?
Yes, Nathan, it's cheating. It's cheating on your wife, he thought. With your baby brother.
He grabbed his cock hard, and dug his fingers in, trying to hurt himself, to punish himself, but it just felt good. He'd passed the point of no return back there in the kitchen - Peter had dragged him right across the line. Again. Where the only truth that mattered was sensation and emotion, where nothing made sense but everything, where nothing was right, but everything... everything was right.
Nathan got so distracted that he didn't see Peter jumping for him until it was too late, and he completely folded under Peter's tackle. Before Nathan could get his bearings, Peter had Nathan's arms pinned behind him in such a way that he couldn't move too much without an immensely painful result. Before Nathan could surrender or negotiate, Peter sharply slapped Nathan's cock, making it instantly, excruciatingly hard. "Ow! You little shit!" Nathan snapped. "That is not necessary!" It only made Peter snicker and slap him again, then laugh out loud at Nathan's helpless, animalistic moan.
"Oh, poor you," Peter whispered, then released Nathan, slid over him, and, moaning, went down on Nathan's cock. The sounds of appreciation that he made had none of Nathan's subtlety; he sounded eager, hungry, and pornographically horny. As usual. Maybe even more than usual. Peter hadn't begged this time, only waited and hoped, and now here it was - the undeniable symbol of Nathan's lust, inside his mouth.
Nathan smiled and relaxed into it for a moment, relishing this moment of taking back authority. He sat up on his knees, spreading his legs and sliding onto one of the dry towels (he was nothing if not a gracious guest), grasping Peter by the hair and directing him to follow. Peter gave a helpless-sounding sigh, hardly allowing contact to break even for a moment. "Who wants it, huh? Who the fuck wants it?" Nathan taunted, watching Peter scrambling to keep up, panting in his effort, but keeping his mouth open. Nathan decided not to give Peter a chance to keep up, because Peter just looked so fucking sexy when he was a little confused, his feelings a little hurt, but the urgency of the blood pounding in his groin making him stay with it, get stronger. Sacrifice pride. Learn. "Do you a fuckin' favor," he completed his own thought out loud. "That what you need?" he continued, thrusting with his hips, slowly and gently fucking Peter's mouth. "Is that what you needed all weekend? A nice, big cock in your mouth?"
Peter drew his head back and gasped for breath. "That's what I've been trying to say," he said, looking at Nathan and then rolling his eyes.
It irritated Nathan, having Peter answer a purely and obviously rhetorical question. It was a childish, bratty thing to do; Peter's stock in trade. "Shut up," he muttered. He grabbed Peter by the hair again, and this time he did force Peter down until half of Nathan's cock was in his mouth, and held Peter very still by the hair. By the look on his face, it was uncomfortable, but Peter couldn't speak, couldn't resist, couldn't get away. Nathan resumed thrusting, a little harder this time, then a little harder than he should have. It just felt so good; it just looked so good. Nathan's own ruthlessness pleased him. "Is that it? Is that what you're looking for?" he muttered.
Peter throat abruptly seized - Nathan would feel shame later for how good that felt - and he tapped two fingers against Nathan's thigh. No matter how ruthless he was, Nathan had to abide by certain rules; he let Peter go. It happened so rarely. Peter could always take it, whatever "it" was. They'd agreed a long time ago that if it went too far, they could tap out, since they'd both done enough sport-wrestling to notice and respond to the signal without even having to think about it. Nathan couldn't remember the last time that Peter had made him stop doing anything - he'd been willing to force his gag reflex before - and Nathan only stopped Peter when what he was doing would leave a mark. He would never tell Peter to stop just because something was unbearably painful. Peter usually didn't, either. It must have been pretty serious.
As soon as his mouth was free, Peter broke into brief, violent coughing, and tears streaked over his bright red face. "Fuck you," he hissed.
Nathan leaned in to look at Peter more closely, unable to hide his concern, an apology hovering on his lips. With startling strength, Peter knocked Nathan the rest of the way over, his head avoiding the sharp corner of the nightstand byinches. Peter leaned over Nathan, and spit at him, a froth of saliva landing on Nathan's chest. Nathan saw red, and felt almost dizzy from the overwhelming combination of anger and lust. "Fuck you," Nathan countered, then, his growling voice descending softly into a purr, "ahhhhh... fuck you..." as Peter rubbed the spit into Nathan's nipples, wetting them, rolling them tightly between his fingertips, putting his lips to them, his tongue, moistening them even more. Lightly biting them, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make them spring up hard and rigid and terrifically sensitive. Just enough to hurt a little.
As much as he loved it, Nathan didn't want to take any chances; there'd be no way he could hide (or explain) bruised nipples. He grabbed Peter roughly by the hair and yanked Peter's face back toward his cock. Instead of opening his mouth and sucking, like a good boy, Peter spit on him again, saliva dripping down Nathan's cock and pooling against his balls. Fresh tears ran down Peter's furious, defiant face, his dilated eyes appearing far more green than brown, as if the tears were washing his irises, revealing the strange, opalescent jade underneath. It was just a trick of the light, the angle of his head, but so beautiful.
Still, not beautiful enough to relieve Nathan's anger. "Oh, it's like that, is it, tough guy?" Nathan whispered, pulling Peter's hair hard, hard enough to make him shout in protest, his voice loud and desperate enough to make Nathan reflexively let go. But Nathan grabbed Peter's shoulders and wrestled Peter down to the surface of the bed, fingers digging deeply into Peter's straining flesh. He locked his knee across Peter's thighs, trapping him in place. Peter struggled hard, but couldn't resist simple, superior physical strength. He was wiry and tougher than he looked, but the months of inadequate nutrition had taken their toll. He surrendered, relaxing, submitting underneath Nathan; when Nathan took his hands away to run them over Peter's body, the indentations left by his fingers stood out in bright pink welts on the pale skin. He could always mark Peter; there was no one Peter had to hide from.
Peter lay still, but trembling, eyes closed and his face turned away, sucking on his pinky finger. His cheeks were wet and red and blotchy. He looked devastated, too broken even to be afraid. Nathan wished that he could think of something, anything to say. A comfort or a challenge, or an explanation of himself. But there was no way that words would convey even a fraction of all the things he felt. Instead, Nathan kissed Peter's cheek, gently licking the salt trails of his tears. Peter cringed away, but his hips rose eagerly against Nathan's thigh, pressing his moist cock, exuding a slippery trail of fresh pre-come, against Nathan's belly.
Nathan felt the sudden urge to backhand Peter to make him stop crying, stop making Nathan feel like an evil, heartless monster ravishing a child, and get into it. But of course Peter was already into it, had been for a long time, far longer than Nathan had been. Peter had been having sex, since they got in the car at the parents' house, and had just been waiting for them to take their clothes off, waiting for Nathan to catch up. God knew... for years, he'd been into it, and willing to follow wherever Nathan led, willing to show Nathan the way, so reckless and brave and trusting and stubborn. So faithful, always believing in the truth of this, believing enough for the both of them.
Sweet, dirty little boy, my adorable pervert, my beautiful, totally and forever sex slave.
He had to do something. He just couldn't bring himself to hit Peter in the face, and Peter obviously didn't want to be kissed again. Instead, he turned Peter over and held him face-down against the bed, and struck Peter's behind hard, chuckling as he watched the flesh quiver and redden; he spanked the other cheek, then the first one, harder. Peter moaned and clenched the pillow in his fists until his knuckles turned white. Nathan gripped the reddened flesh of Peter's buttock, digging his fingers in deep, then slapping again, watching the welts turn a darker red.
Peter gave a shaky whisper: "Y-yeah-h-h..."
Nathan straddled Peter's thighs, and hastily grabbed the lube, pouring out a big puddle of the clear liquid into his palm. It was enough to generously slick up his whole hand, and leave the fingers of the other hand slippery, too. "You're so bad," Nathan murmured. "What am I gonna do with you? I can't spank you; you like that too much." He edged Peter's legs apart with his knee, and plunged two fingers deep into Peter's asshole. Peter grunted sharply, muffled by the bedclothes. The tension along the back of his neck, his shoulders, showed Nathan that Peter was biting down hard on the blankets. But it was easy to penetrate him; it couldn't possibly have hurt, not with all that lube. Peter wasn't brand-new anymore. He'd had his ass fucked dozens of times. But not very recently... because Peter didn't let anyone else but Nathan fuck him, and Nathan hadn't in months... too long.
Nathan sighed, pulling his fingers out, jerking on his own dick with the lightly-lubed fingers of his left hand. He slid three right-hand fingers into Peter, slowly spreading the fingers apart. Not too much; just enough. Peter's whole body twitched, and he opened his legs wide, arching up slightly onto his knees, presenting himself, then bucking back hard against Nathan's hand. Peter's breath came in urgent, hyperventilating gasps.
"You like that, too?" Nathan asked, taking his hand off his dick, holding Peter's hip instead, thrusting his fingers into Peter, his forearm muscles rippling, using the muscles of his biceps and shoulders to intensify the motion. "Oh, what am I gonna do with you, bad boy?" He added another finger, and... Peter was nearly singing.
"Please... please... please..."
Nathan felt a white-hot, urgent need crackling through his body, knowing that if he didn't change direction now, he'd end up elbow-deep inside Peter and Peter would never tell him no. Nathan withdrew his fingers, wiping them off on the dry towel underneath them, and grabbed Peter's hip, smoothly turning him face-up. Peter's eyes stayed closed, but his hands blindly felt for Nathan, stroking Nathan's chest and his side, finding Nathan's penis and holding onto it, as if it would steady him.
"Come on," said Nathan, kissing the florid bruises on Peter's shoulders, "it's time for you to get fucked. Come on." He lay on his back, holding Peter's hip and the opposite thigh, bringing him closer, pulling him on top. Peter moved up, opening his legs, bracing himself with his knees spread across Nathan's hips, and angled himself down, sliding himself onto Nathan's cock, moaning terribly as it went deep inside him.
Nathan arched up, too, slamming them together, and Peter's moan became a throaty, desperate cry. "Oh, God... ohhhhh...!" He sounded like he was dying, but his tight little body immediately began posting up and down, swiftly riding Nathan's cock. Nathan answered his moans, rising so far off the bed that only the sides of his ankles and his shoulder blades still had contact with the surface, savagely meeting Peter's thrusts. Not only was Nathan balls-deep inside, the combination of their movements created a sharp, slamming effect. It had to be hurting Peter beyond imagination, but Peter was doing it - Peter was fucking himself hard, using Nathan's cock to stab himself, Nathan's matching thrusts plunging in further. Working together to fuck Peter as deeply as physically possible.
Without warning, Peter stopped, and just hung there, twitching, Nathan's cock still buried inside, and his mouth closed over his staggered moans. At first, Nathan thought Peter was coming, but instead, the moans slowly, but definitively, became sobs - hard, closed-mouth, convulsive sobs. Still more tears ran from his eyes. Nathan watched this transformation, feeling somewhat impatient, sheer lust making him distant from this emotional display. We're supposed to be fucking - what the hell are you crying about? he thought. We don't have time for this. I'm trying to get you off. What's the matter now?
He held Peter still and thrust up into him a few times, but Peter kept sobbing. Nathan sat up, raising his knees, holding Peter steady, cupping Peter's back in his arms. Peter stopped crying as soon as Nathan held him, then threw back his head and gave a heavy sigh. "I love you," he said thickly.
Nathan felt like a wave had crashed over his head, his heart clenching hard inside his chest. He loves me. The stupid kid loves me. Oh, God, and I love him too; we're both stupid and fucked up and this is impossible. No matter how hard or how deep I fuck you, you fuck me where no one else can touch, and leave me raw inside. It was all he could do not to start crying himself. He kissed Peter on the cheeks, then on the lips, his mouth closed, gentle, undemanding, affectionate but clearly sensual. Now, Peter kissed back gratefully, articulating his kisses so that Nathan could hear every one. Finally Peter turned away, breathing hard. When he tried to angle his body back, but couldn't because of the cock inside him, he flinched. "Hurts?" Nathan murmured, caressing the small of Peter's back, leaning back a little bit to give Peter a better range of movement.
"I deserve it." Peter slid his lower legs forward, so that he now rested in the cradle of Nathan's thighs. His body moved again slowly, more back-and-forth than straight up-and-down, easier now that he had Nathan supporting his back. He was almost too breathless to speak, his words forced out between desperate gasps. "I want it." He struggled to smile, but, distorted through lust and pain, it was more of a snarl. "I've been good."
Nathan leaned back, matching Peter's strokes, his eyes rolling to the ceiling and then clenching shut as he grasped the meaning of Peter's words - he didn't feel this pain as punishment; it was his reward. Nathan shuddered, then moaned aloud, shaking his head in understanding and dismay; he was the just the same. But only with Peter; only for Peter.
"You haven't been good." Nathan sat up more, and kissed him again, and then some more. "You've been bad; you've been very bad. You make me hurt you. Are you a brat just so you can... make me hurt you..." Holding Peter. Letting Peter drive, letting Peter take what he wanted. Faster. "I don't want to hurt you... but oh, I know how you want it..." Matching him, their hips moving in sync with their rapid, frantic breathing. "God... but I do want to hurt you... it just feels so good... gets you off so hard..."
They fucked faster still, Peter's ass slapping against Nathan's thighs, their bodies moving away and together, their angled bodies mirroring each other, Peter's hands on the bed and Nathan's hands on Peter's back, holding him, supporting him, even though Peter didn't need the support. He was strong enough for this, somehow. And then, for just a second, Peter's body went limp and his eyes rolled back; he twitched, blinked his eyes back into alignment, and resumed his ride, even harder than before. It looked like nothing so much as Peter nodding off to sleep. When Nathan realized how unlikely that was, he had to acknowledge that Peter had just lost consciousness for a moment, and that he'd just fucked Peter to the point of passing out.
That was it for him.
Nathan squeezed Peter tightly against him, quaking hard. An unbelievable orgasm swept through him from the top of his head to his fingertips and toes and every part in between, rising, mounting in intensity, staggering him. He let Peter go and flung himself back to the surface of the bed, groaning insensibly, "No... no... oh God please, oh God please don't end, please..." Thirty seconds of sublime, humbling, thigh-quivering bliss, absolutely perfect, a high like flying into space, zooming above the clouds; he felt almost like passing out himself, and like crying when he descended to earth, grasping helplessly at nothing, trying to hang onto something to keep him there.
But, of course, it had to end sometime. His body went limp, and he descended sadly to the ordinary world.
He hadn't come that hard since he was a teenager, with the famous five-thousand-dollar-a-night prostitute - the one who had figured out just by looking at him that he might want something up his ass while he got his dick sucked. Nathan usually came pretty hard with Peter, but now that Nathan wasn't a kid anymore, he'd given up on ever again having an orgasm so blindingly wonderful that the knowledge that the climax would end was grief itself.
But if anyone could bring him back there, it was Peter.
Peter disentangled himself from Nathan and got up, standing for a moment beside the bed, breathing hard with his hand to his forehead, Nathan's semen glistening on the backs of his thighs. Nathan held out one hand to him, still not able to speak yet; the other hand carefully, but energetically, stroking his painfully sensitive cock, trying to keep it hard. Peter narrowed his eyes at Nathan a bit, as if to say, Aren't you done yet? But he couldn't keep the smile off his face entirely.
He rested one foot on the bed, grabbed one of the damp towels, and wiped his behind and his thighs, showing off. Nathan relaxed his arm, his eyes drawn like a magnet to the sight - the well-fucked asshole, low-hanging balls, and the cock so hard it was dark-red and standing up against Peter's stomach. He knew Nathan loved to see what he'd done; sometimes the sight was enough to keep Nathan going. Peter put on a little show, lightly stroking his cock, slipping a finger into his moist and swollen hole. "Ow," he whispered, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting. "Ooh. You were just there. Hurting me... inside."
Nathan broke into a grin. "I wasn't hurting you, faker."
The show was over all too soon. "Yeah, you were," Peter replied sulkily. "You and your big Italian dick." He lowered his foot to the floor, and drank for a long time from the glass of water on the nightstand. He handed the glass to the thirsty and grateful Nathan while he opened the nightstand's little side drawer again. He brought out a Ricola throat drop, unwrapped the wax paper wrapper, and put it into his mouth, the scent of strange herbs and mints suddenly wafting through the room.
"You've got a big Italian dick, too," Nathan murmured, setting the glass down with a little water left in the bottom. Peter chuckled, and drained the glass. "Hey... I'm sorry I throat-fucked you..."
"Tsk!... You don't even know what I'm doing," Peter replied, the herbal lozenge clacking against his teeth. He spit the cough drop back into the wrapper, dropped it into the wastebasket, then returned to bed. Nathan opened his arms and embraced him, kissing his ears, but Peter edged away from the kisses again. Instead, he slid his hands under Nathan's knees, and bent them upward toward his shoulders, showing him off. Peter gave Nathan's vitals a good look, licking his lips. Nathan wished that his own cock was as hard as Peter's; Peter's was gorgeous, thick and rigid and twitching, the head still gleaming with fresh seminal fluid. Peter let one of Nathan's legs go, and Nathan obligingly kept his knee raised, wondering what, exactly, Peter was doing. Willing to go along with it, whatever it was.
Apparently, he was producing a generous mouthful of saliva, which he spit into his palm, and rubbed lightly onto his cock, his fingers moving up and down on the shaft. Coating the surface, not rubbing it in. Not jacking off with it. With his free hand, Peter prodded the spit-wet head of his cock between Nathan's buttocks, slipping along until he made contact with Nathan's asshole, and then sharply - oh so sharply - thrusting his way inside.
Nathan screamed, because they were alone, and he could, and the mint in the cough drop had gotten into Peter's saliva and then onto his cock and now it was inside Nathan, tingling, stretching him, and he wasn't even close to ready and it -
"Hurts?" Peter hissed, his breath shaking out in a bitter laugh. "Good, 'cause I love to hurt you."
"Fuck... yeah it hurts!" Nathan cried out. "My God, Pete!... oh!..."
That kind of pain... that kind of helpless but consensual submission... every detail reminded him so much of Nathan's first time, the way he had described it to Peter, in a breathless whisper, years ago, back when Peter was still new to fucking. Just spit, too horny to be careful and too desperate to be nice, because we need it right now - and a trace of toothpaste and mint mouthwash still in his mouth - oh God, burning like fire but oh yes, oh yes. But Peter had never done it before now. It was stupid and dangerous and desperate and oh so perfect, that terrible culmination of desire for something he didn't even want to acknowledge. Like Peter. Like having a cock in his ass in the first place. Like this. Like embracing the fear and the hurt, and having to recognize it, and accept it as part of him, or risk losing a part of himself forever. But oh, so dangerous, the sweetly stinging, throbbing pain, the ravenous desire for more.
We can't do this. And I'll die if we stop.
Peter only thrust into him a few times, each stroke dragging ragged cries from Nathan's lungs, then stopped as soon as he'd gotten his cock all the way inside. He gently wiped the sweat on Nathan's forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you want to get fucked," he asked, "or do you want to swallow my come?"
Nathan said shakily, "S-s-swallow, swallow, please."
"You don't want me to rip up your ass?" Peter gave him another solid thrust. "Dry and rough? I'll do it. I'll fuck you right up."
"Peter, please! Oh - oh, please. Don't." Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, and felt Peter's fingers gently brushing his temple. The side of his face was cool and wet, his eyes were burning; it took him a moment to understand that he was weeping. It wasn't entirely from the pain, but the tears wouldn't have happened without it. Peter always understood this ritual of submission and confession so much better than Nathan ever could. Nathan's authority was and always had been an illusion. "I promise to be nice. I promise to be nice from now on - just please, don't."
"Admit that you'd love it." Peter circled his hips, bringing his damp hand to his lips, tasting the tears.
"I ahhh - I admit it. You know I'd love it. I want you to fuck me till I can't move... Oh... oh, baby, you fuck so good, so good..." Nathan rambled dizzily, feverishly masturbating himself, convinced that he could come again if he just didn't stop.
Peter pulled out with painstaking slowness, and wiped himself off again, tossing the towel over his shoulder onto the floor. He held his cock close to Nathan's mouth, and jerked off hard and fast, within seconds ejaculating copiously onto Nathan's face. Nathan didn't dare keep his eyes open, but the one tiny glimpse of the smile on Peter's face was enough to make his heart skip, then send his pulse surging into his groin. Nathan opened his mouth, but Peter didn't really bother to aim there, only a few, precious, stray jets landing on Nathan's tongue. At the taste of come, at the feel of the warm jets hitting his face, Nathan climaxed again, but compared to his last orgasm, this one was just an afterthought.
Peter moaned the same short "Ah" over and over again, like a skipping record. When his voice finally changed to a soft gasp of completion, Nathan closed his mouth and swallowed, opening his eyes. Peter stared back at him with his eyebrows raised. "Wow," he sighed, grinning, tracing his finger through the semen dripping down Nathan's face, "I didn't think I had it in me."
Nathan smiled at him. "I always knew."
Peter picked up a fresh damp towel, and handed it to Nathan. "Wipe your face, slut; you look disgusting," he said lovingly. His tough, disinterested demeanor was fading rapidly.
Nathan shook his head, rubbing his cheeks with his fingers and then sucking them clean. "Nooo... no, it's good for the skin. Since you shot it on my face instead of in my mouth, like you told me you were going to..."
"I wanted to see it," Peter whispered. "I wanted to watch. To see you take it. Here, don't eat it all, you nasty sicko." He broke off, kissing Nathan's mouth, rubbing his cheeks against Nathan's cheeks, making his own face a sticky mess. He pulled back and laughed, basking in the sound of his laughter and Nathan's together. And how long had it been since they'd shared a laugh? Peter wrote something Nathan couldn't decipher with the spunk on Nathan's belly, then sealed it with a kiss.
They wiped each other clean with the now-cold damp towels. Lying side by side, they wrapped their arms around each other, clinging tight, legs entwined, faces close enough to kiss, stroking each other's backs, chests, buttocks. Nathan asked, running his fingers along the bumpy ridges of Peter's spine, "Are you still mad?"
Peter sleepily replied, "About what?"
Nathan laughed, and then Peter laughed. "I'm sorry I hit you," Peter said comfortably, snuggling even closer. "It just ... wasn't the right setting for me to fuck you hard in the ass and then gag you with my dick... I'm sure you understand."
"How's it look?" Nathan asked, touching the tender spot on his jaw.
Peter examined it carefully, touching the jawbone, stretching the skin a little to test its elasticity and check for swelling. "It's fine," he said. "You shouldn't have a bruise or anything."
"See? I told you jizz was good for the skin." Nathan stretched lazily, arching his whole body against Peter's, from neck to feet, then lay still but for his fingers tracing circles at the base of Peter's spine. "We shouldn't fuck so hard," Nathan murmured.
Peter kissed him some more. "I'm okay," he said. "We can play nice next time. You didn't do any damage, I don't think."
"I think you did," said Nathan, half-joking. He resolved that the next time he stretched, he'd do it more slowly and carefully.
"Did I?" Peter rolled his eyes innocently. He didn't seem overly concerned. "You should be more nice to me, then."
"I promise I'll try," Nathan said, all sincerity.
"For next time?" Peter quirked a drowsy version of his best lopsided smile.
"Yeah," Nathan whispered, kissing the smile, "next time."
They both closed their eyes, and within seconds, fell asleep.
~~~~~
SUNDAY.
Angela Petrelli was surprised to see both of her sons present for Sunday brunch.
Nathan and Heidi, without the kids, arrived on time and in subdued good spirits. More than anything, they looked like they hadn't gotten enough sleep, but not with the kind of lingering intimacy that meant that they'd been up all night having sex. But not fighting, either; just not as cozy as usual. More like the delicate forgiveness stage.
But Peter also showed up, about fifteen minutes afterward, just as they had started eating. Angela actually got out of her seat to hug and kiss him. "Peter! What a surprise!" she said. "I didn't think we'd see you."
"Well," Peter confessed with a grin, "I still don't have any food at home."
"Nice to see you, Peter," said Heidi, staring at him oddly, with a hint of a smile on her face. "How are you doing?"
"I'm really hungry," he said, piling a plate with toast and scrambled eggs. "I went to sleep after we got back from the zoo, and I slept straight through to this morning. So I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."
"Oh, you went to the zoo?" Angela asked. "That must have been nice."
"Yeah, the monkeys were really great," Peter replied.
"So are you two on good terms now?" Angela said pointedly, looking at both of them.
"Yeah, we worked it out," Peter said with a shrug.
Heidi and Angela both stared at Nathan then, and Nathan shrugged too, sipping his coffee. "We apologized," Nathan said. "We fought a little more first, but... it's all right, ladies. I think Peter just needs to eat more regularly."
"No arguments here," Peter agreed.
"I see," said Angela with a distracted smile.
They ate in silence for several minutes. After Peter had finished his plate, he said hesitantly, "Sorry. I guess I was a lot more stressed out than I thought I was."
"That's all right, Peter," Angela replied.
"Maybe next year, I'll... do better..." Peter gave a sheepish grin. "If I'm still welcome."
"You're always welcome, Peter."
Angela reached over and squeezed Peter's forearm, the contact reinforcing her words. Peter gazed lovingly at her, then filled his plate a second time. He looked over at Heidi and smiled at her, too, and she sighed, smiling back. "Wanna come over and babysit for extra cash?" she asked, with a laugh in her voice. "You could try out some of your nursing skills on some very uncooperative patients."
Peter laughed too. "Totally," he said. "I mean, I wish I could. I have to actually go to work tonight. I've got to lay down some overtime to cover, y'know, Christmas." He looked over at Nathan, who gazed at him steadily, but without intensity. "Maybe once I'm out of school, things will calm down a little bit. And then... I'd be happy to sit for the kids any time."
"I'll send you home with with leftovers," Angela said matter-of-factly. "We don't want you starving to death."
After the meal, Peter was helping in the kitchen, and Nathan approached him, plucking at Peter's shirt sleeve. "Got a minute?" he asked, and Peter nodded and set down the dirty dish in his hand.
Outside in the courtyard, Nathan put out his hand; Peter grasped Nathan's thumb, the way he did when he was too small to actually hold Nathan's whole hand. "You good today?" Nathan asked softly.
"I'm great today," Peter replied. "You?"
"My tits are a little swollen," Nathan said under his breath. His mouth twitched, resisting a smile.
"How's your ass?" inquired Peter, in the same tiny, parenthetical voice, fainter than a whisper, that only they could hear, and that only because they were touching.
"Sore," said Nathan. "Feels good. Nice to have something to remember it by."
Peter smiled enough for both of them. "No blood or anything?"
"Just a little," Nathan replied matter-of-factly. "Yesterday, after I woke up. I let you sleep; you're like a log. On a morphine drip." He couldn't resist smiling back at Peter. "It's nothing. I'm fine. But... don't ever do that again. It's really dangerous."
"What if we're stranded on a desert island, and there's no lube?"
"Pray for coconut oil." Nathan glanced back through the glass doors, to the inside of the house. "I gotta go. Be careful, okay?" He spoke in a normal tone now.
Peter still smiled, too, but his eyes became sad. "You too, huh?" he said. "I care about you too. Love you."
"Love you too, Pete." Nathan gently stroked Peter's palm with his fingers. "And... thank you."
"Any time," Peter whispered. "I'm yours."
They hugged each other, finishing with brotherly pats on the back, then kissed each other on both cheeks.
"Happy holidays," Peter said, letting go.
THE END
A/N: Oddly enough, on the day I finished the final draft, I randomly found a stuffed toy colobus monkey - you know, the kind of stuffie monkeys that have velcro on its paws, so you can hang it from things or carry it around your neck. I took it as a sign. ^_^
Thanks to my betas, indyhat and 47_trek_47. Couldn't have done it
without you - and special thanks to artist deani-bean for that AMAZING illustration, and to linaerys and technosage for moderating the Big Boom Challenge! ... also, thank you to everyone who has given me positive feedback over the last several months - you have encouraged and helped me to become a better writer, and it has been a pleasure to entertain you and learn from you.
Roll on "Generations"!
My inspirations:
• "Ain't that Peculiar" by Marvin Gaye
• Our Inner Ape by Frans deWaal
• Wikipedia for help with Thanksgiving Day football games (the Indianapolis Colts won that year, btw), the colobus monkeys at the Central Park Zoo, the New York Coalition for the Homeless, and heck, almost everything
• Heroes Wiki for everything else
• all that wonderfully dirty, wonderfully clever smutfic I've been lucky enough to read, and which showed me that there don't really need to be any limits
• a wonderful little show called Heroes, created by Tim Kring and a wildly talented group of filmmakers, especially my OTP BFFs, Milo Ventimiglia and Adrian Pasdar - long may they love
*******
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